


Wheel of Westeros Book Three: Rise of The Raven Part Two

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21827953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: In this chapter, Bran follows a young Lyanna in the past, as she takes revenge for a broken heart. Sansa discovers to her sorrow that her husband has been untrue with horrible results. Griff's mission has left him angry and anxious, but Arianne is there to comfort him.
Relationships: Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Young Griff/Arianne Martell
Series: Wheel of Westeros [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Wheel of Westeros Book Three: Rise of The Raven Part Two

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Three: Rise of The Raven Part Two**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Bran

It’s not Bran who wargs into Hodor. Bran knows, because he feels only the crisp morning air of the Winterfell courtyard and smells only the waft of manure. He sees Wylis, the boy who Hodor used to be, writhing on the muddy ground, seizing, convulsing. Bran realizes this is when he becomes Hodor. He does not see the wights tear to pieces the gentle giant who carried him, nor does he see them savage his wolf, Summer. But he knows, like he knows everything else. Meera’s voice over her shoulder: _Hold the door!_ Sorrow in the past smells like ink and cold moss. [1]

He turns to see the Three-Eyed Raven standing behind him, smiling in his black robe. He is free of the tree in which he has been slowly entangled. He smiles and his one red eye twinkles.

_Goodbye Brandon Stark_ , he says. _May the secrets of the past cradle you well._

With that, he disappears in a swirl of mist shaped like a white dragon.

_Where is he now?_

Bran senses a warmth and knows that The Raven is growing closer to his family, moving south, carrying his malice and lust for power with him. Fear and dread in the past feel like thinning ice.

But if _he_ gets close to them, then maybe…maybe.

Where The Raven is, Bran is. He searches for his body in his mind, but his mind is no longer in his body. For a moment, he sees her: the old playmate of Sansa’s, covered with bruises and scars, with many small parts missing, inside and outside. But it doesn’t hold. He can feel a swirling puddle of humiliation that is and is not Jeyne Poole’s. Sansa’s disappointment in the past looks like a cloak’s hem caked with shit. Her humiliation feels like a bad turnip in the belly.

_Oh no…he’s an idiot._

A turnip stew is simmering in the kitchen of the Smoking Log of Winter Town. The odor of garlic and onion floats out of the windows, shutters left open to let in the evening breeze of the false spring. The sky glows as pink as a maid’s cheeks on her wedding night. A sprightly youth in a rough tunic and boiled leather has been following young lords Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, his too-big hooded cloak dragging in the mud. He takes a seat in a far corner, as the tavern keep and a kitchen boy hustle to bring the young lords fresh bread still steaming and a pitcher of ale. Men remove their caps and serving wenches curtsy and blush. The boy in the corner is very quiet. He neither removes his hood nor the woolen cap beneath. His chin is hairless at the bottom of his long face. _Arya horseface,_ Jeyne Poole used to say.

_It’s Aunt Lyanna,_ Bran realizes, _spying on her new betrothed_. He will watch her watching him, so they are both spies. Lyanna’s careful to sit with her legs open wide like a boy, drinking from her cup of ale with one hand, asking for a bowl of stew in a voice that’s lower than normal, but not much. Lyanna’s voice is husky in the morning and huskier after a ride. Now she will see if Robert’s love for her has truly changed his nature. Robert’s beard is black and full, his voice carrying over the whole tavern. A serving girl with long yellow braids hanging over each shoulder sits upon Robert’s lap laughing at his jokes. His hand has already found its way under her skirt. It’s not long before they are running hand-in-hand to the kitchen under some pretense of showing him how bread is made in the North. Broken hearts in the past sound like a scrub brush at the bottom of a pot.

At first, Lyanna stays put. If she moves, she’ll cry. Her brother Eddard, who they call Ned, is still sitting at the table that Robert and the girl just left. He takes his cloak off his slender shoulders, and runs his fingers nervously through his hair to keep it out of his eyes. A pretty young serving wench with big eyes refills his cup and winks at him. He turns red and takes a swallow without looking at her. When she plants a lightning-quick kiss on his cheek, he looks down at his feet and won’t stop laughing, but he keeps one hand on his cup and the other between his knees. As soon as he is finally able to stop laughing, the serving girl makes a joke about buttering his bread, and he starts laughing again. His face is red as a beet, and his hands never leave his cup and his knees. His eyes never leave his boots. Lyanna is furious because she can’t stay furious at him. Anger in the past is the color of beet juice.

Lyanna drops a coin on the table, springs up, and slips out the door as quiet and unnoticeable as a mouse. She creeps around the back of the Smoking Log but will never make it past Robert’s and Ned’s men who keep watch, drunk as well though they are. But Bran knows that Robert has the serving girl in the back just outside the kitchen door, that he is taking her against the wall of the tavern. There’s something familiar about that image, but he can’t work out what. When the girl moans, Lyanna winces and a tear escapes her gray eyes. _Can she hear it? But how is that possible?_ Ned is still at the same table when Robert returns. He acts almost as if he doesn’t realize Robert has been gone. Robert calls a fiddler over and bids him start a song. He takes the high part and Ned takes the low part as they sing:

_Lay down, sleep my little darling_

_I’ll be nothing when you’re gone_

_Lay down, just like in a coffin_

_Then I’ll have nothing but a song_

_I’ll leave you in a coffin for real_

_And I’ll leave you in a church_

_Lay down, leave, you’ll be lonely_

_I know I won’t go_

_Lay down, sleep, you’ll be lonely_

_I know I won’t go, it’s not my turn_ …[2]

Bran can watch Ned Stark forever. Sometimes he gets so caught up in his love for the younger version of his father, he forgets that he shouldn’t be here. That he is trapped here, while his body remains in the present with intentions for his family that may or may not be evil. At some point, Ned and Robert stumble out. Lyanna follows far behind, stumbling a little too. Ned and Robert have a discussion in which there is some whining and a little griping, and then they separate. Ned mounts his horse and leaves for Winterfell with his men, but Robert goes to another part of Winter Town that Bran has never seen before.

It’s a brothel, he can tell by the way the young women lean out of the windows, sucking gulps of cool air between painted lips, their breasts peeking out of their shifts which they wear like other girls would wear a gown or dress. One in particular has a wild head of brass-colored springy curls. _Curls like Meera’s_. Her eyes meet Robert’s, and she comes down to meet him. There is no need for Lyanna to go inside. She knows what is going to happen next. But after Robert comes out, she goes inside anyway, and Bran follows her. There is no hiding from some truths. The women in these places are survivors, like him. He watches as half a dozen of them descend upon Lyanna, who they see as a handsome, sweet youth – too skinny and innocent to beat them or hurt them like some men do. The curly-haired one who was just with Robert asks, _Are you a virgin, boy?_ Lyanna nods, and lets her take her hand and lead her behind a threadbare curtain. In the past, excitement feels like black silk against the arch of a foot.

Behind the curtain, atop a tiny feather bed, the curly girl, whose name is Missy, massages Lyanna’s bare foot. Lyanna moans, and Missy slowly runs a hand up the leg of her breeches. She pulls herself as close as she can get and presses her mouth against Lyanna’s, parting her lips with her tongue. As they kiss, Bran tries to turn away, to go somewhere else, but he can’t. Lyanna is so caught up herself that she doesn’t see that Missy’s hand has wandered further up and discovered her secret. The kiss is broken, and Lyanna gasps and looks apologetic. But Missy is not angry. She smiles, and without a word, unlaces Lyanna’s tunic, reaching underneath to pull off the strips of linen in which Lyanna has bound her chest.

_There wasn’t much to hide after all was there now,_ Missy says.

Lyanna pouts and starts to get up, but Missy stops her, clutching her around the waist.

_Now don’t do that, sweetling, I was only joking…_

She puts her lips around Lyanna’s nipple then and begins to suckle gently. Then she scooches down, unlacing Lyanna’s breeches and pulling them down around her ankles. What she does next, Bran knows he shouldn’t be seeing. But he can’t pull himself away. He just can’t. Desire in the past smells like apple blossoms.

When they are done, Lyanna asks about Lord Robert. At first, Missy is affronted.

_What is this, anyway? If you’re another one of his paramours, I’m not…_

_Come now,_ Lyanna is quick to say. _I just want to know what he was like._

Missy pauses for a moment, then smiles. _That fooker was an animal,_ she says.[3]

Afterward, Lyanna asks Missy for a final favor, for which she will pay double what she owes. She produces a tiny, empty glass vile and uncorks it.

_Can I have some tears?_

It doesn’t take much for Missy to give her what she asks. She lost two babies as soon as they were born. Her only love took everything she had and ran south. Her mother took suddenly sick two years back and died before she got to say goodbye. During their last conversation, Missy’s words had not been kind. The vial is soon full.

Missy lets Lyanna go without paying a thing.

Chapter 2: Sansa

Breakfast was late. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Gretchel was derelict in her duties. Maddy had come to help her dress and brush her hair, and offered to get breakfast ready in Gretchel’s place.

“Maddy,” Sansa said. “If you know some reason why Gretchel has been falling behind in her work, I’d like you to tell me.”

The handmaiden’s eyes shifted right and then left, stopping for a flash of a second on Harrold, who had come unbidden to “have breakfast” with Sansa, by which he meant attempt to make up to her and slither back into her bed with another pathetic gift of stolen poetry. But when he had attempted to dismiss Maddy, Sansa demanded the girl stay.

“She’s been…ill…often…of late,” Maddy stammered, avoiding both Sansa’s and Harrold’s eyes. Sansa thought she saw Harrold glare at the handmaiden.

“I think it’s time you sent her on her way,” Harrold said. “It’s almost winter…there are plenty of girls who would take very little to do her job.”

Sansa spun around. It was her turn to glare. “Oh shall I add that to my list of things to do this morning? Shall I? Let’s see…” She snatched the poem Harrold had written down on a piece of scented parchment, grabbed a quill and feigned scribbling over it. “Hire new handmaiden. Inventory supplies for march to Winterfell. Read poem by philandering idiot husband. Wash smallclothes. Kill self.”[4]

Harrold’s face reddened. When he was angry, he bit his lower lip with his two front teeth. Lately, there were constantly two incisor-shaped red marks that reappeared as soon as they faded.

Maddy spoke, momentarily breaking the thick tension. “I can wash your delicates, my lady, if you just show…”

“ _Get out Maddy!”_ Harrold barked.

When she was gone, Harrold tapped a folded open letter on the desk while staring at Sansa, who did her best to ignore him. But this tapping was one of many nervous habits Harrold had that it had gotten exceedingly difficult to overlook since she’d caught him fucking Randa Royce in Randa’s solar.

It had been Mya who had alerted her to what was going on after she had broken down in front of the bastard girl over the decision to march on Winterfell. Normally, she would confide in Petyr over her doubts, but Petyr had been in King’s Landing when Harrold had taken upon himself to rally the Knights of the Vale to take back the North. Now that the Vale was theirs, Harrold reasoned, they should declare her real identity and march with all their strength. Then he had gone ahead and broadcasted who she was to every soldier and lord in the Vale. In the meantime, the Riverlands was still held by the Freys, but their power was weakening. Frey after Frey had been murdered, and the Brotherhood, whoever and whatever they were, was the likely culprit. Soon the Brotherhood would have control of the Riverlands, and until they could work out a deal with whoever this grim lady leader was, the best tact was to wait. Once they had Riverrun back, they could negotiate with the Boltons, and perhaps reduce the number of deaths that taking Winterfell back would surely cost. But Harrold stupidly insisted on marching north immediately, while the Freys were occupied. Sansa had been so angry that he had defied her, she could barely stand him in her bed. She had felt like a bad wife…imagine!

_Suppose he dies,_ Sansa sobbed to Mya, whose offer of a batch of moon tea she had felt too guilty to take. _This is when I should be with him as much as he likes. It could be his last taste of love before the Bolton bannermen cut him down…which they surely will…oh Gods!_

_Actually_ , Mya had said darkly. _It probably won’t be the last._

That very night, she had gotten herself out of bed in the middle of the night, when a pinkish glow from the far off rising sun was just bleeding into the dark. She had gone to bed extra early with the excuse of a headache, and pretended to be sound asleep when Harrold came in. Usually, that trick didn’t work. He would nuzzle her awake relentlessly and be inside her before she could let out a yawn, or he would just pull up her nightgown and slip in from behind without even bothering to bring her around. But this time, he just pulled the covers more tightly over her shoulders, and even tugged her nightcap down over her ears. When he was gone a while, she crept to Randa’s solar and listened at the door. She heard Randa’s groans and gasps, said to herself that it had better be one of Albar’s knights, and slowly opened the latch. In the light of the breaking day, she discerned her husband’s firm, bare behind, like two smooth granite orbs. _There are few butts like it anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms_ , she had thought before closing the door quietly. Harrold hadn’t been allowed in Sansa’s bed since, and Lord Nestor Royce had disowned Randa.

“I’m growing very bored with this, my lady,” Harrold said, dissolving the vision in Sansa’s mind.

“You’re bored. _You’re_ bored?”

“I know you’re angry with me, and you have the right,” he said. “But I am your lord husband, and we are going to war. It doesn’t do for morale for you to show me so little respect.”

“Oh I’m sorry, my lord. Am I not supporting your effort to take over _my_ home? I didn’t realize the hours I’ve spent trying to find a way to pay for this effort without alerting Cersei’s spies wasn’t sufficient to your preference. I’ll double my efforts. Perhaps when her cutthroats come for me, morale will increase. Or perhaps I will save her the trouble.”

Harrold slumped. The suicide talk was very effective in getting to him, but of course she would never really kill herself. She had survived too much and come too far to give in now.

“My love, please don’t talk like that,” Harrold said. “The Gates of the Moon is perfectly safe from any cutthroats. Don’t you think if you died, I would be lost? Don’t you understand that you are my only reason for living? I will never let anyone hurt you.”

Sansa ignored his placating. “What’s that letter?”

Harrold blinked as if he’d forgotten he’d been holding it. “Perhaps now isn’t the time…”

“You can tell me or I can read it myself…” She reached out, but Harrold covered it with his hand.

“It’s from the Night’s Watch, all right? Your…bastard half-brother has deserted and disgraced himself. They’re calling for his head.”

“Jon? I don’t believe it.” She snatched the letter and read it. It was signed Lord Commander Alliser Thorne, and claimed that Jon had formed an alliance with Wildlings and was under suspicion of trying to dismantle the Watch. “It’s a lie. Jon was a good and honorable boy.”

“Sansa, sweetheart,” Harrold reached out and clutched her hand. “He’s a man grown now, and obviously not the boy you knew. Furthermore, he could be a threat to Winterfell…”

Sansa pulled her hand away roughly. She didn’t need this now. _Can it be true?_ Her mother Catlyn had always said Jon was going to be trouble, and Sansa now more than ever understood her mother’s resentment. But other than Edmure Tully, an uncle she barely knew who was a prisoner at the Lannisters’ Casterly Rock, Jon Snow was the only family that remained to her. Once he lost his head, she would be totally and truly alone. For some reason, the memory of Jon, aged twelve, throwing up on a toad that had hopped into the courtyard, flashed in her mind. As a boy, Jon came down with the same stomach sickness every year around harvest time. He hadn’t seen the toad, but Robb had really teased him about it. _I guess_ _Jon hates toads_ , he had said laughing.[5] Sansa’s eyes filled with tears.

“Leave me,” she said.

“My darling…”

“ _Out_!”

Harrold left her in a huff. Sansa squeezed out a couple of tears and wiped them away. She supposed she would starve to death before it occurred to Gretchel to bring her some bacon and a boiled egg. Then she heard Maddy scream. She rose and ran out into the hall and went down the stairs to the servants’ quarters, from where Maddy’s screeching had come.

“Maddy what in Seven Hells…”

The chubby handmaid brushed right past her, with her hands over her eyes, sobbing pathetically. Despite the noise Maddy was making, Harrold was conspicuously absent. Suddenly, Sansa felt sick to her stomach. Down the short hall, Gretchel’s door was ajar. She walked in, and the first thing she saw was a black-red clump on the floor…was it cloth? No, it was softer, and shinier. It reminded Sansa of what came out along with puppies whenever a bitch gave birth in the kennels. Then she saw Gretchel, and felt her heart shrink and drop into her stomach.

Gretchel had been kneeling, praying probably, when she had collapsed face first onto the floor. Her face, ghostly white, was pressed against the stones with her unbraided brown hair encircling it, and her bloodless arms were splayed to the sides of her bent knees. Beneath her, between her crumpled legs, a large pool of thick dark blood had formed.[6] Sansa noticed the bedclothes were covered in blood as well. On the night table lay a bloody rag in which something long had been wrapped. Sansa slowly approached and picked it up. When she unfolded it, she found two sharp knitting needles, like the ones Old Nan had used at Winterfell to make their shawls and nightcaps. A tiny gob of bloody flesh clung to the end of one of them. Sansa dropped them on the floor.

_Why didn’t she tell me? Why? I could have helped her…I would have…_

Then she remembered Randa, and she began to wail as she hadn’t done in a long time.

The underground cells of the Gates of the Moon were actually warm relative to the rest of the castle, but they smelled like the bottom of a foot. When they stopped at the door, Mya Stone hesitated.

“If Lord Nestor knows I’ve filched these keys, I’m gonna be the new resident,” she said.

“He isn’t going to know,” Sansa said. “Give them to me. And then go.”

Mya did as she was told. Sansa took the key that Mya had separated from the others, and turned the lock without knocking.

Randa, formerly of House Royce, was curled in a ball on the straw-filled mattress they had given her to sleep on. When she heard the door open, she sat up suddenly and blinked out at Sansa, eyes adjusting to the glow of the torch. Sansa inserted the torch into the empty sconce, and looked Randa over. She had lost weight – that was clear, though her breasts were still fuller and plumper than Sansa’s. Her thick hair was greasy and tied back with a string. She needed a change of nightgown. Dark stains had formed under the arms and between her bosoms. Her chamber pot needed changing too, but Sansa just ignored the smell and sat in the chair in the corner. Randa slid off the mattress and knelt, hanging her head low.

“My lady, I…I ask for your mercy…” All the confidence and swagger that had characterized her voice were gone. She sounded as though her nose was very stuffed up. “I’m so sorry, Lady Sansa…please, I beg you…forgive me!” She sobbed pitifully, burying her head in her hands.

“You regret it. What you did,” Sansa said. She felt a terrible emptiness.

“Of course I do…I shall regret it every day for the rest of my life!”

“There's not a day goes by I don't feel regret,” Sansa said, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I look back on the way I was when I lived at Winterfell: a young, stupid girl with stupid dreams running away to marry a gallant prince. I see that girl, and I want to talk to her. I want to try to talk sense to her, tell her the way things truly are. But I can't. That girl’s long gone, along with my father, who died because I wanted so badly to be queen. Because he couldn’t trust me with the truth. I have to live with that too…”[7]

Randa walked on her knees, scraping them across the floor to Sansa. She put a filthy hand on Sansa’s foot. “My lady…that was no fault of yours. Surely you see that…”

“Gretchel is dead,” Sansa said blankly. “I shall be in need of a new handmaiden. Gretchel’s chamber is empty and waiting. You start tomorrow.”

She stood then, and left Randa sitting on her feet, her mouth hanging questioningly open.

Chapter 3: Griff

The sail back to Dragonstone had been long, so when Griff saw _her_ waiting with the others, it made all the difference. Princess Arianne stood next to Septa Lemore, whose drab septa’s smock made the brilliant colors of her gown pop beautifully. It was the color of a rising sun – dark crimson at the very bottom, where the drapes of satin fluttered in the wind and revealed the gorgeous curves where her calves met her knees… then at her belly the color was a rosy golden orange fading into yellow at the shoulders. A wide corset of gold filigree held up her breasts and revealed the cleavage of which Griff had dreamt every single night since they embarked. Her hair was pinned behind her ears with shiny barrettes, and dark brown ringlets of it cascaded over her lovely copper-colored chest and blew gaily in the wind. It was all Griff could do not to run into her arms…but he would have to wait. Lady Olenna Tyrell was among those waiting, with a deeply sour look upon her face – and for good reason.

They had taken Maidenpool easily – the Company and the Kingsguard along with a loyal band they had acquired at Crackclaw Point, where the Targaryens were still loved. Their captain was a member of House Boggs, who had been loyal to Griff’s father during the usurper’s rebellion. He was called Mortimer, named for a knight of historical repute in the family. Griff took to calling him Morty, and quickly grew to like and trust him. Morty was tall and lanky and green-eyed with dull brown hair that tended to stand up on end much like Griff’s did, and a thick, long beard that he combed into a point. He sang as they had marched into Maidenpool, with a ringing voice that echoed against the hills and soldier pines. His jokes were bawdy and hilarious. Morty had sworn allegiance to Griff after the battle (such as it was) was over, and Griff decided to add him to his Kingsguard.

It was more of a misstep than a victory. The Lannister forces had departed, as it turned out, to lay siege to Highgarden and empty the castle of its gold. Further, they had taken a huge supply of food from the Reach, so the idea of starving King’s Landing by cutting off Maidenpool and Saltpans was pretty much for naught. Most Lannister forces in the Riverlands were busy trying to locate this Brotherhood, a band of killers and followers of the Red God, led apparently by a mysterious woman known to some as Mother Merciless and others as the Hangwoman. Right under Griff’s nose, the Tyrell army had fallen, and Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill was now Warden of the Reach. Griff had wanted to march straight south and depose this traitor, but Duck had reminded him of the distance. They should return to Dragonstone, he rightly suggested. They would rally their Dornish allies and hit them from below once they had a strategy together.

Furthermore, Griff was growing increasingly tired of Harry’s lack of order when it came to his men. In the midst of the takeover, as they were emptying Jonquil’s Pool, the famous bathhouse in Maidenpool, Griff had happened upon a member of the Golden Company raping a local girl. She couldn’t have been over sixteen. The cretin had her bent over a pile of barley sacks, and having ripped off most of her dress, was taking her roughly from behind. At first, Griff hadn’t known what he was looking at. The girl was so tiny that it almost looked like the sellsword was just trying to move a sack over a few feet without picking it up. Then he heard the screams, and his stomach turned. He jumped off his horse and ran over, hollering, _What are you doing! Stop it! Stop!_ He gave the man a hard shove, and he lost balance and fell off the girl, his cock swaying like a sapling in the wind. Griff turned to the girl and asked, _are you all right,_ but the girl had already run away at top speed, sobbing and whimpering as she went. Griff’s vision blurred with wrath, and he set to beating the sellsword furiously with the butt of his sword. Harry appeared then, with that idiotic look he always wore.

“Your Grace,” he had asked, “What seems to be the problem.”

Griff spat at the sellsword raper, who trotted away. “ _How many fucking times do I have to tell you NO RAPE. What is it you don’t understand about that_?”

“My apologies, Your Grace. Of course I understand…”

Griff stomped over and stood face to face with Harry, so close he could smell his rancid breath, which made Griff even angrier. “You need…to control… _your fucking men_! Those who fight for Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name _, do not rape…_ is that clear?”

“Would you like me to reprimand him, sire?”

“No I want you to hang a medal on him… _yes I want you to bloody reprimand him!”_

Duck appeared then, responding obviously to the sound of Griff’s enraged voice reverberating through the burning streets. In the absence of Connington, it had become his duty to quell the dragon when it reared its head.

“Does the King need to start castrating these imbeciles or what?” Duck said, putting a hand on Griff’s shoulder lightly.

“Sire…is that what you wish?” Harry looked horrified.

Griff tried to compose himself. He breathed as Lemore taught him to do when he felt himself losing his temper. _In through the nose…out through the mouth._

“What I wish, Harry,” he said, “is that I could count on you to keep your men in line. One way or another…you keep. Them in line.”

“Aside from the rather harsh option of castration, is there anything you might require in the way of reprimand, my king?” Harry said.

Griff glared at him. Why didn’t he ask that young girl what she recommended, since castration was so distasteful to him? “How about you breathe on them…that will teach them a bloody lesson!” Griff walked away, no longer able to tolerate Strickland’s presence. Over his shoulder, he barked, “That man doesn’t get paid this month…and guess what… _neither do you_!”

There was hardly a moment to rest once they arrived home. Griff got only a hint of a whiff of Arianne’s delectable scent before Lemore whisked him off for a bath and a change. Then it was three hours planning with the war council – so long Griff felt his eyes crossing. Taking the Reach back was first priority, but there was more to worry about. Varys, as usual, was the bearer of unwelcome news. Euron Greyjoy had attempted a siege on Oldtown and had been driven back, but was sure to return. It was said he had taken his own ship, the _Silence_ , to the Arbor and docked.

“You don’t mean the Redwynes are receiving him willingly?” Griff asked, incredulous.

“It may be under threat, my king,” Varys said. The bald, powdered Eunuch who always managed to smell sweetly of lilacs was wearing a red robe trimmed with black, cinched with a braided belt of black silk. “That’s one possibility.”

“I feel like you want to tell me there is another possibility,” Griff said.

“I shudder to think it, but my birds sing a disturbing song of some allegiance between the Lannisters and the Greyjoy prince, and though I hope they are mistaken, the idea does smack of Cersei Lannister’s idiocy.”

He explained that originally, the Greyjoy prince was to attack Oldtown with a massive of fleet of new ships commanded by himself and his niece, the princess Asha Greyjoy, to whom he was supposed to be betrothed. But the princess had disappeared, along with most of the fleet.

“My birds suggest she must have betrayed Euron and sailed ahead of him. Some report seeing several newly built ships north of Lorath bay in Essos, but the area has been wracked with wild weather, and the fleet could be utterly lost. Euron’s silence – not the ship – is noteworthy here. Clearly, he’s planning something, and the fact that the plan doesn’t seem to involve retrieving his lost fleet is rather ominous.”

“What do you mean? How so?” Griff asked.

Varys paused. “Does Your Grace have any familiarity with…magic?”

Griff heard Duck snort. “I’ve seen some things,” Griff said. “I did live in Essos my entire childhood. You run into some strange elements over there. But I thought you were suspicious of magic, Varys. Wasn’t it a wizard who…um. Who…”

“Cut me, yes,” Varys said. Every man in the chamber shifted in his seat. “I have no love for magic and its practitioners, it’s true. But I know it exists, and that it can be powerful. Euron Greyjoy too has spent time in Essos…enough time to consort with some of the darkest and cruelest bloodmagicians in the known world. It’s said he has access to powers heretofore unheard of in Westeros…”

“Oh for the sake of all the gods, spider,” Olenna Tyrell interrupted. “My home is burning. The Reach and the Riverlands bleed. Let us make our plans in the plane of reality for now, shall we?”

Varys acquiesced, bowing, as Duck shouted, _hear, hear_! But Griff was filled with dread. Euron Greyjoy wanted Oldtown, and he had sent Connington there. Connington might have lived five, even ten years before the greyscale took him. Now it seemed Griff may have sent him to a swift early death. Part of him wanted to take his army, sail all the way around Dorne, defend the Citadel and forget about Horn Hill. Protect the only father he had ever known. But Ser Loras, Duck, Frank Flowers, of course Harry, and even Morty would agree that without the Reach, they wouldn’t get anywhere. When they got Highgarden back, and then took the Riverlands, they would be in a position to demand Myrcella Lannister’s surrender. Griff on the Iron Throne…that was of ultimate importance. Once he was declared king, he could save Oldtown, and Connington, and anyone else who needed his protection.

They would sail south in two days to the Sea of Dorne and meet with an army at Yronwood. Then they would march on Horn Hill first, and drive out the remaining Lannister forces. Griff made a joke about the fact that his ancestors had laid siege to the great Dornish castle long ago, saying it was _Yronic_ , but it would have played better in writing. As it was, the laughter was mostly from exhaustion. When they finally adjourned, Griff went to the sept to pray. He prayed mostly to the Mother, begging her to protect Connington, as Connington had protected him throughout his childhood. He thanked the Warrior for their victories, and asked the Crone for wisdom. He prayed until his knees were sore, then went to his solar, where he hoped his princess would be waiting. He had given Arianne a key in secret, knowing exactly what Septa Lemore would say if she knew anything about it.

They had only kissed at first. He and Princess Arianne met often in Aegon’s garden, and talked among the tall ancient trees and wild roses, the scent of pine and cranberry tickling their noses. Arianne had been such a comfort to him in the absence of Connington, reminding him that Stannis Baratheon had a little girl who had gotten greyscale as a baby and been cured. She could be very wise for a young woman, too. She could sometimes articulate what Griff was thinking but didn’t know how to say. The first time they kissed, Griff had broken the kiss first, ashamed of his infidelity to Daenerys. Arianne’s lips had tasted so sweet, like berry juice and honey. _I can’t,_ he had told her. _I’m promised to another_. Arianne had placed a gentle hand on his cheek and smiled. _The princess Daenerys is a girl of the East_ , she had said, _she would never begrudge you a kiss_. When he protested further, she had said only, _Griff…you are a king._ After that, they had often met in the garden to talk. Talking turned inevitably into sweet, long kisses.

One evening, when he confessed that he so badly wanted to touch her, she had brought his hand up to her breast. It was firm and warm through the silk of her gown, and he gave it the gentlest of squeezes. After that, her cousin Elia Sand, who was staying at the castle with her, helped arrange secretly for a key to be made. It wasn’t long before Griff was able to touch the skin of that breast and taste the nipple, to feel the flesh of her belly and bottom give way to the pressure of his fingers, and to feel her fingers against the heat of his erection. Yet he had never given her his seed…he never took it that far. If they made a child, he was sure to lose Daenerys. He still belonged to her, which thankfully Arianne seemed to understand.

As he hoped, the princess was waiting for him on his bed, still wearing her sunrise gown, and sipping a cup of Dornish wine. She put the wine down and leapt up to greet him as he shut the door tightly.

“My sweet king…I thought you’d never come.”

He clasped her smooth neck as he kissed her. “I missed you so much,” he said, breathing in the sweet clove-and-cinnamon scent of her scalp as he circled her face with soft kisses, moving from her lips to her jaw, to her temple, her forehead, the bridge of her nose, beneath her eye, her cheek, her chin, and back to her lips. All the while, Arianne whispered, “I’ve thought of you every minute of every hour. I was so afraid you would be hurt, or…”

“You mustn’t do that, sweetheart,” Griff told her. “You’ll worry away your life thinking how your king is in danger.”

“I know…a king is always in danger,” she said, wrapping her arms around his middle. They held each other tightly for a moment, then her hands were unbuckling his sword belt. It fell to the floor around his feet. When her fingers drifted up to the laces of his tunic, he clasped her hand instead and kissed it. For some reason, the rape of the Maidenpool girl had popped into his mind, and he suddenly felt ill and cold.

“Drink and talk with me a while,” he said.

She smiled and went to pour him a cup of wine. When she walked, her bottom swayed from side to side, the light silk of her gown clinging to every curve. Griff took three quick swallows of the wine she brought him.

“What’s troubling you, my king?” Arianne always knew when he was upset.

“I caught a soldier of the Golden Company raping one of my subjects today,” Griff said. He felt he could talk to her about anything. She never judged, or expressed disappointment, unlike Septa Lemore, who always managed to turn every conversation into a lecture.

Arianne tilted her head and brought her hand to his cheek. He remembered the first time she had done that…how it had filled him with desire. “Poor Griff…it hurt you to see it, didn’t it?”

Griff nodded. “Duck thinks I should have rapers gelded,” he said. He sat down on his bed and started to remove his boots before Arianne ran to do it for him. Once they were off, she began to gently massage his feet and the backs of his legs. It felt heavenly. He hadn’t realized how sore he was.

“Many lords do such to rapers…that or they offer them a choice between gelding and the Wall…not an easy decision to be sure,” Arianne said, smiling.

“What do you think?”

“I think taking a man’s cock and balls doesn’t stop him from hurting women.”

Griff was a bit confused. “How’s that?”

Arianne stopped her rubbing and sat back, looking into his eyes. “Desire doesn’t make a man rape. Hate makes a man rape. Sometimes it’s not even hatred for the woman. Sometimes it’s hatred of himself.”

“It makes me feel sick. It makes me think of what happened to my mother.”

Griff looked down at the floor. Then Arianne reached up and lifted his chin with her fingers. “You mustn’t go to that dark place, darling. The Mountain is dead. I held his skull in my hands…” She leaned forward, resting on his lap, and kissed him again. “Drink some more wine, sweetheart, and forget.”

So he did. He told her of some of his other troubles, and listened to her talk about what she and Elia got up to on the island while he was gone. After a couple of cups, Griff did feel better, and his desire began to build. Arianne complained of feeling a little dizzy, so Griff laid her down on his bed and took his place next to her. As they continued to kiss, their clothing came off piece by piece, and they searched each other’s bodies, emitting tiny moans when the right place was touched in just the right way. Arianne’s breasts were so bountiful, so firm but yielding. Griff could touch them forever. Nothing was so wonderful. She let him nurse at them as long as he wished, which would have been days if they’d had them to spare. She perfumed her nipples with lemon juice before she went to him, and it made his lips smack to her conspicuous delight.

The first couple of times they had been together like this, he had placed a shirt over his member as a barrier, to prevent things from going too far. But at some point, her hands had found him. She had gasped with glee, praising the size of it. Griff had thought she was flattering him. He’d never seen another man before. But on the way back from Maidenpool, Griff, Duck, Morty, Frank and Loras had gotten drunk and measured their hard-ons against each other. Whoever had the longest member would have the pleasure of having his one of his balls flicked by the man with the smallest. Griff’s went from his elbow to his wrist. Duck had raised his arms in the air and shouted, _MY KING!_ Morty refused to do the flicking he was charged with, even when Griff himself goaded him. Finally, Frank had reached over and flicked poor Morty while he was unaware, and the game was quickly ended as Morty heaved in a corner.

The memory made Griff smile, and he laughed a little as he pulled Arianne’s naked body against him. His cock pressed against her belly, and he wrapped one of his legs around her thighs very gently, his hairiness rubbing against her smoothness.

“What’s so funny?” Arianne whispered.

“You don’t want to know…”

Griff kissed her deeply, his tongue and hers imitating their bodies. Arianne had helped Griff learn how to kiss her, how to touch her. She was a patient teacher. She took his hand now and brought it down to her behind, and he massaged her in firm strokes, his fingers drifting toward the heat between her cheeks. She rubbed him from his muscular smooth arm to his shoulder to his chest, breaking their kiss to nibble his collarbone gently. He smelled oranges in her hair and felt his pleasure building. His breaths become deep and quick. The moment she touched it, it would be finished. She reached down between their bodies, and in a moment, it was done. When his seed was fully spilled, Arianne slipped down, and placed the tip of his member in her mouth. She flicked her tongue against the little hole before sucking softly for a few seconds. Griff groaned loudly and cried out her name.

Moments later, as Arianne gently wiped their bodies clean with a warm linen rag, Griff sighed, feeling sorry it was already over.

“Can I do something for you?” Griff asked. He reached between Arianne’s legs, feeling between the tiny lips where she was very, very wet. Arianne took his hand away.

“You know what will happen,” she said.

The last time he had rubbed her on her sex, she had become very excited, which had made Griff very excited. The next think he knew, his body had been between her legs, and he was beginning to enter her. He had stopped himself in time, but they knew they had crossed a line. It had been close…too close. Perhaps it would be different if his pelvis and her pelvis hadn’t been so close. Perhaps if he kept himself farther away…

“Could I do something like you do to me…the other thing?” Griff asked softly.

Arianne had taken him in her mouth many times. At first, it had shocked him. Septa Lemore and Jon Connington had left him woefully ignorant regarding the many possible acts of love. But it had felt so incredibly delightful, he knew it couldn’t be wrong. When he watched her plump, soft lips caressing the head of his member, he almost started to cry.

“Do you want to give me pleasure with your mouth, my king? Do you really want to?” Arianne asked. As she did, her hand drifted seemingly involuntarily between her legs.

Griff nodded. “Will you tell me what to do?”

“Yes,” she said.

Griff moved down to the end of the bed and opened her up to him. She looked like a shiny flower and smelled intoxicating.

“Yes…oh yes,” she said as he tasted her.

[1] Benioff, David & D.B Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 6, Episode 5: “The Door,” 2016.

[2] Priestess. “Lay Down.” _Hello Master_ , Indica Records, 2005.

[3] McBride, Danny, Ben Best and Jody Hill. _Eastbound & Down_. Season 2, Episode 2: “Chapter 8,” 2010.

[4] Newacheck, Kyle. _Workaholics_. Season 3, Episode 3: “Fat Cuz,” 2012.

[5] Parker, Trey & Matt Stone. _South Park_. Season 12, Episode 2: “Britney’s New Look,” 2008.

[6] Police photograph of Gerri Santoro’s body. _Ms. Magazine_ , April 1973. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerri_Santoro)

[7] Darabont, Frank. _The Shawshank Redemption_. Castle Rock Entertainment, 1994.


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